The Deputy (6 page)

A slash down his forehead fountained blood. He screamed and screamed and screamed. I swung the axe again, and it lodged deep in the side of his neck. More blood. I’d never seen so much.

Billy sprawled flat on his back, his whole body twitching like he was being electrocuted. It seemed to go on forever, his legs kicking out, hands shaking. Finally he settled down, eyes wide open to nothing.

I flung myself on the garage door, fumbled with the latch. My face was burning up. I couldn’t breathe. I got it open, raised it and stumbled out to the street, gulping air. I went to my knees and puked. Cold sweat blossomed on my forehead, and I started shivering.

My head swam. I gave myself a moment, breathed in through the nose and out through the mouth. I didn’t want to see or hear anything, didn’t want to think. I just wanted to kneel there with my eyes closed until the world stopped spinning. When I felt settled enough, I went back inside the firehouse.

I went through Billy’s pockets and retrieved Roy’s keys. Then I fished another set out of my pocket, not my own keys but those belonging to the late Luke Jordan. The back of the truck was locked with a padlock. I tried three keys and the fourth one fit.

This time I planned to be ready. I pulled my revolver.

I slowly lifted the latch. I took a deep breath, mentally counted one, two, three, and threw the truck door open.

A swarm of Mexicans ran over me. The sudden silence erupted with yelling and shouts in Spanish. I yelled too, backed away, panicked. I jerked the trigger at the mass of bodies coming at me.
Click. Click. Click
.

I hadn’t loaded the gun.

They bumped and shoved as they ran past. I screamed. But they went around me, flooding through the open garage door, and they were all out on Main Street now, maybe forty of them. Mostly men, but some women too, and I think I saw a child. The night was alive with the chatter of Spanish in the air. I got caught up, found myself standing in front of the firehouse, the Mexicans melting into the night like a fistful of brown pebbles tossed into a dark river.

CHAPTER SEVEN

The racket of fleeing Mexicans faded, and I stood again in the hot still night. I blinked into the darkness, forcing my heartbeat down to something human. They’d gone off in every direction. I wouldn’t have known how to start rounding them up even if I’d wanted to. I went back in, looked at Billy’s corpse. I pulled out my Winstons with shaking hands, lit one and smoked.

I always wondered if I’d have to kill somebody one day, but I never thought it would be Billy, or anyone I knew, anyone I worked with. Once, I was in this fight in a little shithole lounge outside Amarillo. The place got out of hand, and we tried to stay out of it, but some of these motherfuckers got up on the stage and this big biker got a hold on our drummer. The drummer was a little scrawny guy, and I could see that biker was about to break him into a dozen pieces.

I swung my guitar as hard as I could, and the crack on the biker’s skull was so loud, it stopped the rest of the fight, everybody looking up to the stage as this beefy son of a bitch went flopping off the stage, blood pouring into his eyes. I was scared then, worried I’d killed the guy. I checked the hospital three days in a row until I heard he was going to be okay, and then I hauled my ass out of town.

But there wasn’t any power on Earth going to bring Billy back. There was an axe lodged in his neck, and I’d put it there. Billy’s wife was a red-haired woman with freckles named Cindy. She taught fifth grade. I tried to remember if they had a kid or not and then very quickly stopped trying to remember.

Don’t think about it.

I heard somebody clear his throat, and I spun quickly, my hands going to the revolver on my belt. Never mind it didn’t have any bullets.

The Mexican loitering in the frame of the garage door was short and dark, broad flat nose. Black hair down past his neck. He wore dirty jeans and a stained undershirt. Sandals. He held up his hands like
whoa, pal. No trouble here
. He pointed at my cigarette, motioned with two fingers at his mouth.

I held the pack out to him, like I was trying to lure a squirrel with a crust of bread. He approached slowly, took one from the pack. He made a thumb flicking motion for a light, and I sparked him up with my Bic. I backed up to a big toolbox, used it as a bench and lit a new Winston for myself. My hands still shook, but not quite so bad.

My new pal squatted in front of me, puffed, looked around the firehouse. His gaze landed on dead Billy. He muttered Spanish, offered me a sheepish smile and a shrug as if to say
Sometimes you just have to put an axe though a guy
.

He finished the cigarette, stood, uselessly dusted off his pants. I took some more cigarettes from the pack and handed them to him. “For the road.”

“
Muchas gracias
.” He took the smokes and headed for the door.

I watched him shamble away with nothing but the clothes on his back, probably nothing in his pockets either. No I.D. maybe. Where would he go first? What would he do? How would he eat? The answers were all too likely.

“Hold on,” I called after him.

He paused, raised an eyebrow.

“Don’t do anything in town, okay? Take your show on the road.”

He looked blank.

“Don’t steal anything,” I said. “Don’t break into anyone’s house. At least wait until you get to the next town.”

His blank look got more blank.

I tapped the star on my chest. “
Policia
.” I put my hand on the pistol, looked him square in the eye. “I don’t want any trouble from you.” I thumbed the badge again. “Just move on someplace else.”

Understanding dawned in his eyes, and he nodded vigorously. “
Si, si
.” He jogged away.

Good. Maybe he’d cause trouble somewhere else. Maybe he wouldn’t cause any at all. He probably didn’t have a nickel or a plan, but somehow I envied him, running off into the night with two cigarettes and a clean slate. I hoped he wouldn’t hurt anybody. I had bigger worries.

I stood, flicked away the cigarette butt, and closed the big garage door, made sure it was latched. I approached the back of the moving van, and was almost knocked over by the stink. I had the idea that maybe I’d get in there and have a looksee, find clues or whatever bullshit real cops do, but the combination of urine, crap and body odor was like some kind of impenetrable force-field. I shut the door, clapped the padlock back on.

I stood over Billy again, looked into his vacant eyes, knew I had to go get somebody about this. Fact is I did toy with the notion of hauling the body off and burying it, pretending like the whole thing never happened.
What? Who? Billy?
Shrug.
Haven’t seen him. Why? Something wrong?

No, that shit never works out. Never. I’d seen enough CSI shows to know that, and anyway I was spattered pretty good with Billy’s blood. No, this was a big, fat mess which wasn’t going to go away or clean up easy.

I left the firehouse through the kitchen and walked the alley back to the police station. Inside, I tried the chief on the radio again and came up empty. I was starting to worry something bad had happened to him. Billy had tried to kill me. What else might he have been capable of?

I flipped open the Rolodex on the chief’s desk and dialed Amanda’s number. Her machine picked up after six rings. Her recording sounded very businesslike. I waited for the beep.

“Uh, Amanda, this is Toby. I think … uh … listen, we got a problem, and I need somebody to get down here to the station. I’ll try Karl next.” I hung up, wondering how much of a dork I sounded like. I hated talking to those things.

I sighed, thought about waiting five minutes then trying Amanda again. I did not want to call Karl, former Sooner linebacker, loud-mouth, muscle-head prick. He blew out his knee at University of Oklahoma, came back to Coyote Crossing and stayed. Putting on a badge made him feel like big man on campus again, I guess. He also volunteered as assistant football coach for the school’s JV team. He enjoyed shouting at people.

I suspected he basically looked at me like some guitar-playing pussy. I’d never gotten any warm vibes from him.

Anyway, it didn’t matter. I couldn’t deal with this shit myself, so I dialed Karl’s number.

After three rings I heard him pick up, some kind of rattle, a cough and a moan, Karl’s jock voice asking, “What the hell time is it?”

“It’s Toby, Karl. I need you to get down to the station. There’s been … trouble.”

“What the hell are you talking about, man?”

“Just get down here, okay? I can’t handle this, and I don’t want to explain it all on the phone.”

“Where’s Krueger?”

“I can’t find the chief. That’s why I’m calling you.”

A big sigh on his end, lips smacking. “Okay just … let me get dressed. Just stay there, right?”

“Okay.”

“Shit.” He hung up.

I wasn’t sure if I felt better or not, but at least it was out of my hands. Karl’s problem now. I wondered if he’d arrest me, what the procedure was. Then it occurred to me Karl and Billy were pretty tight pals. Maybe Karl wouldn’t arrest me at all.

Maybe he’d pull his gun and blow my brains out.

CHAPTER EIGHT

I put my feet up on the desk, sat back and lit another Winston. I was going through the pack pretty fast. I wasn’t really supposed to smoke inside the station, but if you kill a guy you get some slack. I was pretty sure that was a rule.

I exhaled, watched the smoke twist and drift, and replayed the conversation between Billy and the Mexican back at the firehouse. There was something I was supposed to pay attention to, something important, but I couldn’t get it straight in my head.

I patted my pockets. Three sets of keys. Mine, Roy’s and Luke Jordan’s.

Keys.

I picked up the phone and dialed. It rang, three times,

four, five.
Come on, come on come on
… Billy’s words came back to me all to clear.
Go find the boy again and get the right keys this time
.

Eight rings, nine, ten.
Answer the damn phone, Doris!

I slammed the phone down. This time I didn’t rush off. I took the box of .38 ammunition, loaded my revolver, stuck the rest of the box in my pants pocket. I was out the front door in a flash, getting into the Nova and cranking the engine. I gunned it, squealed my tires making a U-turn on Main and hauled ass west of town, the gas pedal stomped flat.

It was all too easy to imagine. Her on the floor dead while they sacked the place looking for the keys. Or maybe they’d do worse than kill her. Who could say? Anything. And the boy. I edged forward in my seat, strained against the safety belt, willing the Nova to go faster. The engine screamed so loud I thought it would explode any minute.

I slowed as I approached the trailer park entrance and killed the lights. I parked half a block away then headed for my trailer with my revolver out. No lights in the windows. I tried to make my heartbeat slow, and I told myself a little story about how Doris probably just went back to bed and was too lazy to answer the phone. I scanned the driveway and both sides of the trailer but didn’t see the Mustang or any other cars.

I didn’t see Doris’s car either.

When my boot hit the middle step up to the door, the creak was so loud it made me wince. I held my breath, but nothing happened. I tried to turn the knob. Locked. I stuck the key in and turned slowly. I swung the door open quietly an inch at a time, stepped in, closed the door easy behind me without a loud click.

The revolver felt sweaty and heavy in my hand. I wanted to be ready, but I didn’t want to blast Doris by mistake. I stood a long time listening. It seemed like a long time, but it was probably only ten seconds. My mouth felt dry and cottony.

A flickering white light from the living room, dim and twitchy, jagged shadows on the wall and ceiling. I eased down the hall, gun in front of me, rounded the corner and saw the television turned onto a station of white noise. There was a rectangle in the middle of the TV screen, and when I took two steps closer, I saw it was a piece of notebook paper scotch-taped to the screen.

I peeled it off and flipped on the nearest lamp.

It was a note. From Doris.

Toby,

I can’t do this anymore. I do not love you,

and I don’t think I ever did, although I

wish I did because you’re a good father and

a good person. But this just isn’t me. I have

to get out. If you won’t come, then I’ll go it

alone. I’ll send money for the boy once I’m

set up in Houston. Don’t hate me. It’s no use, so please just don’t hate me. I knew you’d be

home soon, so I left the boy sleeping—

I knocked over the lamp and end table when I jumped up and ran for my son’s room. I burst through the door, stood panting over his crib.

He lay sleeping, the covers completely kicked off. Fresh diaper, Bob the Builder t-shirt halfway up his chest, showing off his perfect round belly. His mouth hung open, his bottom lip looking like pink porcelain. A faint blush on his cheeks.

I set my revolver on his dresser and scooped him up, didn’t care if I woke him. I needed to feel his weight against my chest, touch the thin hair on his head. He didn’t wake, just made a little toddler noise and wormed his head into my armpit. I backed into the rocking chair, shifted until he was comfortable in my arms. One of his pudgy hands rested on my chest. He felt so warm and solid.

I felt that ache behind my eyes I always get when I’m about to cry. I held it back. No time. Not now. Some kind of relief. An emotional release. But not now. I let it turn to anger.

All I could think was
Bitch. Goddamn bitch
. How could she run off and leave him like that? Our son. My boy. Anything could have happened. When he was eight months old, I came home from a shift, walked past Doris watching Montel on the couch and found the boy in the kitchen. He sat in the playpen, face going blue. I grabbed him, panicked, flipped him upside down and slapped his back until the grape popped out. They say grapes and chunks of hotdog are the two biggest culprits for toddler choking. They’ll stick anything into their mouths. I remember my mom pulling a dry bean out of my nostril once.

Doris had felt so bad, I hadn’t yelled at her about it. But now all I could think was
Just figures. Goddamn bitch. Fucking stupid bitch
! And I almost cried again.

It occurred to me a second later that she hadn’t just abandoned the boy. She’d left me too. Her letter was a crumpled ball in my fist. I smoothed it out, let my eyes adjust to the dim glow of the boy’s nightlight, and picked up where I left off.

I knew you’d be home soon, so I left the boy

sleeping in his room. He was wet, so I

changed him. There is enough diapers and

milk until the weekend, but then you’ll

need to get to the store. I don’t know how to

make you understand that I can’t stay here

anymore. I thought there was a reason to but

there is not and if I don’t go, I’ll go crazy.

The Indian woman’s name is Alice. I know you always forget. She can watch TJ sometimes. I

will send some money to help when I get a

job in Houston, but I’m not coming back. I

just read what I wrote and I guess I haven’t

explained a damn thing. All I can say is

that the more I’d say the less happy you’d

be, so there it is.

Doris

Fuck you, Doris.

I hugged the boy closer to my chest, rocked gently. Now what? Just what the hell was I going to do now? I’d have to talk to the Indian woman. Alice. And I’d have to go soon—tomorrow—to the fertilizer plant. I’d need to earn enough to feed us and keep the lights on and pay Alice when I was working.

Maybe I should have given in to Doris. Gone to Houston. That line of thought pissed me off again. I realized I was rocking too fast, made myself slow down. When TJ was an infant, I’d rock too fast and make him spit up. I’d learned everything, how fast to rock him, how to change him, what he ate.

I suddenly hated the whole fucking unfair world. I’d pawned my guitar and amp so long ago, I couldn’t remember what the strings felt like beneath my fingers. I could barely recall playing in some hot, smoky joint, really getting into the groove, how we could mesmerize a crowd when everything was working right. I left all that behind me to do the right thing. Doris was gone, and Molly would leave soon. Was there anything left to sacrifice?

The dried blood on my hands looked black in the pale light. The boy’s skin glowing white and untainted. A lifetime of bruises and broken bones waited for him. He’d climb trees and fall out and step on sharp rocks in the river. But it wouldn’t keep him out of trees or out of the river. I’d see to that. I didn’t want him growing up afraid to live. This was my new mission in life. To make things right for the boy and fuck Doris and everyone else.

Then I remembered I’d axed Billy. Who would take care of TJ if I went to prison? I wanted to cry again.

A noise from outside, the loud creak of the metal step leading up to the back door.

I held my breath and waited, listening. If it was Doris coming back, I’d rip her a new one like she wouldn’t believe. I waited, but nobody came inside.

I stood, edged forward and took my revolver from the dresser. The boy slept, a warm and heavy bundle in the crook of my arm. I walked out of TJ’s room, stepping softly toward the back door. The bathroom was opposite the door, so I backed in, keeping the revolver trained on the door, listening carefully.

Maybe it was Doris coming back. I wanted to think it was her feeling bad for running off, but she’d have put her key in and opened the door by now. She’d have come in.

The silence was like a thick syrup that had oozed down over the whole trailer. I couldn’t hear the step creak or the boy’s breathing or any cars out on the highway. Nothing at all. Time held me in the frozen blue haze of my imagination, hoping it was Doris, knowing it wasn’t, somebody standing out there waiting to come into my home.

Then, two things at once.

A light rattle from the other side of the trailer. Somebody trying the knob on the front door.

And the middle step at the back door creaked again.

I lifted the revolver and fired, squeezed off three rapid shots.

The bangs shook the trailer, the slugs blasting through the door in a neat triangle. TJ came instantly awake, screaming bloody murder and clutching at my shirt. Something on the back steps went tumble and thud.

Shouts outside, in Spanish.

I ran down the hall, and a blaze of bullets ripped through the trailer, tearing through the walls like they were aluminum foil. I dove for the floor, twisted at the last second to land on my back and avoid crushing the boy. He screamed louder. I hunched over him turtle style, more bullets shredding the trailer, some kind of hellfire machine-gun rattle outside the trailer. The gunfire obliterated a lamp, blasted the television, battered the clock off the wall.

The next burst of fire shattered the living room windows. If they were out front, then I sure as hell was going out the back.

I crawled on two knees and one elbow toward the back door. I held TJ hysterical in the other arm. I stood, revolver ready, and kicked the back door open just as I heard somebody do the same to the front.

I jumped down the three steps and landed next to a dead Mexican in a red shirt, the one who’d kicked me in the ribs, I think. Good.

I ran. Lights came on in some of the other mobile homes, dogs barking insanity. Halfway to the Nova, I turned, looked back at the trailer. A face appeared in the back door. I paused and squeezed off two shots, and the face ducked back inside.

By the time I reached the Nova I saw the Mustang parked right behind me. I shot one of the front tires and the boy jumped in my arms. He was gulping air now, big sobs wracking his whole body. I would never forgive myself. No matter what happened from now forward, I had failed. No child should ever have to go through this.

I got into the Nova and cranked the engine, fishtailed a U-turn and squealed the tires putting the trailer behind me. More gun shots but growing distant. I remembered Doris had TJ’s car seat in her car.

Fuckingbitchfuckingbitchfuckingbitchfuckingbitch…

“D-daddy.” He was reaching for me, eyes so blurred with tears he couldn’t see.

I pulled him into my lap, kissed the top of his head. “You’re going to be okay, buddy. It’s going to be okay.” He rested his head against my chest, still crying but more evenly, not so panicked and out of control.

I uttered some kind of brief prayer. I wasn’t sure about my relationship with God. I was in eighth grade the last time I went to the Methodist Church with my mother. But now seemed like a good time to take it up again. I asked for help. I made promises. I hoped He was listening.

I left the trailer park, drove straight and fast toward town and didn’t see anything in the rearview mirror.